


A Kind of Reunion

by dramatic owl (snarky_panda)



Category: Mulan (1998), Quantum Leap
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24747871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarky_panda/pseuds/dramatic%20owl
Summary: Mulan turned away again in confusion, then looked back, unable to help herself, and stared, mesmerized, at the man. He was familiar to her, too.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19
Collections: A Ficathon Goes Into A Bar, Gen Prompt Bingo Round 18





	A Kind of Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt “Fa Mulan walks into a bar and meets…Al Calavicci (Quantum Leap)!”
> 
> Also fulfills the 'vivid' prompt for genprompt_bingo.
> 
> ** Many, many thanks go to Brightknightie and oldtoadwoman for beta-reading and for getting back to me with incredibly helpful comments for a tight deadline.
> 
> Content notes: Mention and/or some non-graphic description of death, war, torture, violence, wounds; alcohol abuse; swearing

When Fa Mulan walked into the bar that evening, there were only a handful of men inside. Every one of them turned and stared at her. A quick scan of the room showed no sign of Li Shang. Mulan steeled herself and went to the bar, chose the empty stool furthest from anyone, and ordered a whiskey neat. One of the novelties of living in America was that a woman could walk into a bar alone and drink hard liquor. Whether that was good or bad, she hadn’t decided. There were still the stares and the leering to put up with. And she enjoyed the hard liquor more than was probably good for her. It quelled the memories and noise inside of her.

“I saw they finally gave you guys an official homecoming in New York, Al,” the bartender said. “It was in the paper today, about the parade and fireworks for the Vietnam vets.”

“It only took ten fucking years.”

Mulan glanced over at the man who’d responded. He was watching her intently, and she quickly turned away, cursing Shang for being late, even though he’d warned her that he might be delayed.

The bartender served her drink, then moved down the bar checking on the other customers. She picked up her glass and took a sip. Then another. She could still feel the same man’s eyes on her. She set her glass down and turned to him again, uncomfortable and annoyed, but making an effort to not let it show.

He wasn’t leering. His expression was one of recognition and maybe a little wariness, too. She turned away again in confusion, then looked back, unable to help herself, and stared, mesmerized, at him. There was something familiar about him, too, she realized. The intensity of his expression and his eyes, and the unruly hair, reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t remember meeting him recently.

The man picked up his drink, and, with an odd smirk, he lifted it in a toast to her, then took a long swallow. Without thinking, she followed his lead. He slid off his stool and came over to her with his drink. Unlike the other men in the bar, who wore faded jeans with holes in the knees, rock band t-shirts, and denim jackets, this man was dressed in tailored grey slacks, a red silk shirt, and a shiny silver jacket that looked like part of a space suit.

“We’ve met,” he said in Vietnamese.

“Yes,” she answered, stunned.

She studied his face searchingly. He gestured to the bracelet on her left wrist.

“Those used to be around your neck. They fell out of your shirt when you were giving me that nasty-tasting wine.”

Her breath caught. With that hint, she finally recognized the American pilot she’d encountered fifteen years ago along the Truong Son Road. He looked so much different now. He was older, of course. Grey strands peppered his tousled dark curls and he had more lines in his face. He was heavier and much more well-nourished, too.

She tenderly stroked the tiny figures on the bracelet and a lump rose in her throat. A curving red dragon carved out of garnet, representative of the Fa family guardian. A jade cricket, for luck. Grandma Fa gave them to her, strung on a sturdy cord, before she left to fight. After the cord broke, she cut it down and restrung the charms as a bracelet.

Grandma passed away while she was still fighting in the war.

Mulan frowned. “You could see these from all the way over there?”

“I’m a pilot. I’ve still got twenty-fifteen vision,” he bragged, pointing to both his eyes.

Her gaze involuntarily shifted to his left side and in the same instant his hand moved to cover the spot. She remembered the sight of the wounds on his torso, especially on that side.

He’d been captive for a long time when their paths crossed, probably for several years. It was easy to see. When they were first captured, American prisoners were never as malnourished and scrawny as he had been. His wounds weren’t from battle. His wounds had been inflicted by the guards. Every so often, one of them, always the same one, prodded the wound at his side to torture him, and he writhed in agony. She’d been relieved when the lead guard finally ordered the other to stop.

They were all taking refuge in the same cavern at the bottom of a hill that day, waiting for nightfall, when traveling would be a little safer. During the day, American planes pounded the trail with bombs, trying to shut it down. She was on her way south, driving a truck with reinforcements and supplies to one of their bases. The guards were marching him and a couple of other enemy captives up the trail to the north, moving them from a camp in the south.

Mulan had been only sixteen when she enlisted as a youth volunteer in 1966 and got stationed on the trail with many other girls her age. It had been an honor to take her father’s place after he returned, wounded, from the front. Fa Zhou had proudly served his country in two wars. Although he had survived his wounds, he was never able to fight again, and he needed a cane to walk until his death just a year ago. To this day, despite everything that happened after the American War ended, she was still proud to have represented the Fa family in the fight.

Women didn’t go into battle, but she’d done important and dangerous work. She’d had to defuse, sometimes even explode, time-delayed bombs in the road, and she had saved lives. Driving a truck at night on slick winding mountain roads, with nothing but a beam of light the size of an orange to see by, was treacherous, and the lack of headlights to give their position away didn’t stop the American pilots from taking blind shots at night, in hopes of getting lucky. In serving on the trail, she’d served on the front lines every day, and she had been good at it.

When she had encountered this man, she’d been on the Truong Son Road for four years. She was strong and resilient. She was tough. She’d endured daily bombings, suffered famine, thirst, sickness, and loss. Friends and comrades-in-arms had been killed before her eyes, and news of many more deaths reached her daily. This man had been responsible for at least some of those deaths. Facing him up close, she should’ve felt anger and hatred, maybe even satisfaction at his misery. But the sight of his face contorted from pain, the labored breathing, the ugly welts and the extensive black bruises visible through his tattered tunic, the prominence of the soulful, melancholy eyes in his emaciated face: all of it just made her sad in that moment.

While the others were asleep, she drew near and snuck him sips of rice wine. There wasn’t much she could do, and she wasn’t sure why she even cared, but the wine was potent and would maybe alleviate some of the pain for a little while. He was propped up against one of the cavern walls, but his hands were bound behind his back, so she had to lean over, hold the small jug and slowly tip the wine into his mouth. She wiped away the drops that flowed over and dribbled down his chin with her sleeve. He muttered several words she didn’t understand, then whispered ‘thank you’ in Vietnamese. She tucked the necklace, which had slipped from its hiding place, back into her tunic and out of sight.

He was marched away with the others at dusk. She was on her way shortly after they were gone. But the vivid memory of that brief interaction had resurfaced in her mind many times since then. She still didn’t understand why she’d felt compelled to offer that small kindness to him. There was nothing special about him. He was just one of many American captives she’d seen, and he wasn’t the only one in great pain, or even the only one tormented by a sadistic guard.

Maybe she’d gone soft. She'd been feeling lower than usual at the time. Only a few weeks before, she’d received two letters informing her that her engagement was off.

Her parents’ letter arrived first, weeks after they’d sent it. They’d each written a part of the letter. Fa Li’s words were gentle, reassuring her that they were proud and honored to have her as a daughter. That her father always called her his ‘brave little warrior flower’. Fa Zhou told her, honestly and realistically, about the growing political tension with China. He’d been a party member for a long time, and he was privy to the things happening behind the scenes. Many Chinese residents were anxious, and the ones who’d retained their Chinese passports were considering moving to China, including her fiancé Cheng’s family.

Cheng’s letter arrived a month later, though it was sent at the same time. He also wrote about the growing political tension with China, elaborating about how it was bad for business. His family had decided to go to China before things got worse, and he couldn’t wait for her to return home. Though he cared for her, and worried about her, when he thought it over, he really wanted a more traditional woman, not a soldier, for his wife.

Maybe, in that moment, she wanted to prove to herself that she could be more than a soldier. She recalled having the passing thought that maybe this man had a fiancé, too, or a wife, even children, waiting and wondering if he would ever come home, maybe giving up on him. Or maybe, that one time, instead of seeing an enemy when she looked at him, she saw a fellow human being. Whatever the reason, she had no doubt that she’d done what was right.

Mulan gestured to the empty stool next to her and, after a hesitant pause, he sat down. They drank and eyed one another in silence, bodies taut. She finally broke the ice.

“There was a homecoming for you?”

He switched to English. “Yeah. They had a big two-day bash in New York City for all the Vietnam vets. A memorial dedication, ticker-tape parade, fireworks, everything. Ten years after the last of us finally got home.”

“You didn’t go to the—big bash?”

He snorted in disgust. “It’s complicated. But I guess it gave some guys closure.”

She just nodded and took another sip of her drink, not sure what to say.

“Anyway, New York’s a pretty long way from here.”

They fell silent again and drank. Even without looking at him, Mulan was acutely aware of his movements and his mood, and she was sure he was aware of hers. They ordered another round at the same time, and continued drinking and not talking. He finally set his glass down and turned a penetrating gaze on her.

“I never thought I’d ever run into you again, especially here. You were one of the truck drivers for the V.C. What are you doing in _this_ country?”

Mulan took a large swallow of whiskey. “It is also—complicated.”

She paused, stared into her glass, bit back the impulse to remind him that his side did terrible things, too. It would do no good to rehash it, especially in a place where she was truly an outsider.

“I’m glad you got home,” she said instead.

“Eventually. After years of—” He cut himself off. His hands were shaking. He picked up his glass and took another large gulp. When he spoke again he’d calmed down a little. “But that wasn’t you. You did something nice.”

She shifted in her seat, and anxiously gave the room another once over. All the same men and still no Li Shang. Nobody was coming through the front door, either. In a way, she was relieved. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted Shang to come now. She wanted to see this unexpected reunion through to the end.

“So?” he began, drawing her attention back to him. “What happened?”

The gravelly voice sounded gentler now, the anger and harshness gone, and she felt herself uncoil a little.

“There was more war after.” It still distressed and grieved her to speak of it. “With China.”

He waited patiently for her to continue but there was too much and it was hard to articulate it in English. She had to resist the urge to switch to Vietnamese.

“Vietnam is my family’s home. But we’re Chinese.”

Understanding dawned. “Oh.”

“I was born in Haiphong.” She stared at her bracelet, and rested her fingertips on the small, delicate charms. “I’m proud of my Chinese heritage, but I am Vietnamese, too. War was in my country for my entire life. It wasn’t always the same war. At first we were on the same side, Vietnam and China. Things changed – even while I was still fighting. It kept getting worse, especially after I got home. So we left.”

Seeing his responsibilities get taken away, one by one, and reassigned, Fa Zhou knew it was only a matter of time before they would have to leave. They departed before dawn, taking only what they could carry. With his injury, her father couldn’t take too heavy a load, so Mulan and her mother picked up the slack where they could. They lived in a refugee camp in Hong Kong for three years until, ironically, they were resettled in America. But this man didn’t need to know all of that.

“I’m still not sorry. I made my family proud. I served my country and my people.” She picked up her glass, blinked back tears, and polished off her drink. “I did what was right.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she could hear in his voice that he meant it. “Sounds like you got screwed over too.”

He drained his own drink then signaled the bartender for another round for both of them.

“I’m Al.”

“My name is Mulan. So, you really recognized me only from the charms on my bracelet?”

“I recognized your face too. You still look pretty much the same.” He smiled mischievously at her and his entire appearance changed. “Just a little older. But you were only a kid then.”

“I was twenty. Not really a kid.”

“Well, compared to me.”

“I’m not giving you your car keys back tonight, Al,” the bartender warned him, interrupting them to serve their drinks. “I’ll let you use the bar phone to call Sam to pick you up if you run out of change for the payphone later.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Al waved his hand at him dismissively. “Don’t bother. You know Sam’ll eventually show up on his own to drag me out of here. Until then, we’re celebrating.”

The bartender turned to Mulan. “I’ll need your car keys too, ma’am.”

“I don’t have a car.”

He gave them both a thumbs-up and walked away.

“Don’t worry. I’ll ask my friend Sam to give you a ride home too.” They lifted their drinks and Al tapped her glass with his in a toast. “Cheers, Mulan.”

“Cheers.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘official homecoming’ that the bartender mentions to Al refers to the Vietnam memorial dedication, ticker tape parade, and fireworks for the vets that took place in New York in May 1985.
> 
> Although I transposed Mulan into Vietnam during the war to have her meet Al, I did not (and could not) change her Chinese heritage. I wrote her as part of the Chinese community of Vietnam, but assimilated. I’ve attempted to be accurate and respectful, but please feel free to alert me if you spot representation issues, cultural inaccuracies, etc., and I will fix them.


End file.
